From the Vaults: The Funeral of Niobe

(So, uh, you guys aren’t cool with just an edit on the pantoum, are you? Didn’t think so. Well, there’s possibly a villanelle in the future, but in the meantime, have a sonnet, back from when I was figuring out how to write sonnets that made sense and were actually emotive to read.)

(Also, yes, the mistake re: Carthage/Sodom is deliberate.)

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15/01/2016: Hauntings

(We’ve moved from rape culture to death. This is the cheeriest little writing blog ever!

This sonnet probably needs a bit more work, really, but eh. Written in Petrarchan format, because really, fuck Shakespeare.)

I wonder, as the darkness closes in, whether bodies can be haunted

As houses often are, by ghosts, or memories of times long past;

Fading, drifting, like a miasma, like a smog, like the very last

Glimpse of smoke from a fire. When the memory is exhausted,

Will the house collapse, the body die? Or will it continue, a morbid

Shadow of what was, even as the spectre leaves its cast?

Like automatons dancing along the rails or spinning out in the vast

Reaches of space, without a voice, or a person, undaunted.

These are the thoughts that come on me in the night, when all is dark,

And my thoughts turn likewise shadowy, thinking of death and

Other sombre things. I think of Charon and the journey he must embark

On. I think of him, standing there, before a legion of ghosts, holding out his hand…

From The Vault: Ten Years Gone

(Posted at least partially to give evidence I write a format other than tritina/sestina. This was written when I was feeling particularly sad and grief-stricken, although there’s now a story behind this sonnet that makes me rather angry instead. But that is, perhaps, another sonnet.)

Nick, my brother, runs down the stairs, his feet

Beating out a rhythm, his fingers too

On floor and roof. Lawrence lingers in the

Lounge, playing games. My mother, high above,

Cooks dinner, and sings, and dances, while the

Stew bubbles. Father sits in his study

And smokes, and swears, and opens another

Beer. I write poetry in my room. But

That is ten years gone. Alone now, I spread

My arms and legs and listen

To the calls of tuis and kakas from

The kowhai tree outside my windowsill.


If I could reach far enough, I could bring

Them back to that day, now ten years gone.